


The Things You Can't Keep (When You're a Freak)

by AzrielRose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 13x21 coda, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, One Shot, Past Rape/Non-con, Sam Winchester Can't Catch a Break, Self-Hatred, Shame, Spoilers for Episode 13x21: Beat the Devil, Suicidal Thoughts, also current rape/non-con, written directly after watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-02 23:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14556237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzrielRose/pseuds/AzrielRose
Summary: A Coda to Episode 13x21 that I wrote after I saw this comment by HazelDomain on Tumblr:SamFixed up good as new by an archangelLimping into camp because….?Or, how did Lucifer "convince" Sam to come with him to the camp site?





	The Things You Can't Keep (When You're a Freak)

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: GRAPHIC RAPE, SELF-BLAME, SELF-LOATHING, DEATH WISH, NO COMFORT  
> Pay attention to the goddamn tags.
> 
> Hi, all. So, I did promise I wouldn't write anything new until my current WIP was finished, but this is a one shot, so it doesn't count. Blame Jared Padalecki and Mark Pellegrino, because every time they do this kind of scene together I'm there losing my fucking mind. Either way, I've been thinking of this non-stop and I finally had to do something about it. I did use dialogue directly from the scene, and imagined my way around the rest. If you're not up to date, bypass this. Allow them to shock you and hurt you deeply, as they did me. Although maybe now I can put it the fuck down.

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, and Sam Winchester can confirm that it’s true (at least on one occasion).  But this time ( _mouth full of razors rending his skin, splash-back of his own blood on his face and chest, so much of it, so fast_ ) he finds himself in a familiar dream.   He's in the bunker having dinner with Dean, but they're not alone.  Cas is there, relaxed in a way he hasn’t been since he’s come back, a way he couldn’t be with Jack missing.  But in the dream, Jack’s there, too, sitting next to Cas and laughing.  Because they’re teasing Dean and he’s taking the bait.  It’s a game that never fails to make even too-serious-Sam smile, and just now it’s better because he’s got allies. 

Allies with serious ammunition.  His mom is telling them about baby Dean ("our little piggy"--why can't that part be real, at least?)  It’s one of Sam’s favorite subjects, and only partly because Dean gets all huffy and embarrassed.  In reality, he hasn’t had a chance to get many of those stories from his Mom, but it’s like this whole dream--something Sam bets _could_ happen, if only they get her and Jack back.  If only they get the chance.

Then his Mom is clearing the table.  If he'd known it wasn't real, he'd offer a mental apology for his subconscious assigning her the role—he knows she’s not exactly the domestic type.  It’s not that he wants her to be something she’s not; it’s just maybe part of him knows that once upon a time there really was a Mary Winchester who cut the crusts off Dean’s sandwiches.  And she’d have done that for Sam, too.  If she’d had the chance.

He jumps to help her, and they get a moment alone.  "Somehow I always knew that you--you and Dean--" (because Sam would never want Dean to be left out—Dean, who only ever accepts blame and not nearly enough credit) "--would come and save us.  And you did."   She’s looking at Sam with love, with pride.  Like there’s nothing bad about him.  Like she can see what Dean sees, what Cas claims to see ever since he took on his pain.  Not a freak, not an abomination.

Someone who deserves redemption--who has earned it, maybe.

And that’s it, that’s the whole dream.  Just the people Sam cares about most, sitting at a table, eating pizza.  Ordinary, to anybody but them, and for Sam--well, let's just say that it might not be the normal, apple pie family get-together he once dreamed of having, but just now it sounds pretty perfect. 

It's the same dream Sam had the morning he died ( _soaked in blood, gripped by iron strength, rough earth scraping as he’s dragged, he thinks he screamed his brother’s name—_ ).

Then he’s back in the tunnels, on the ground, breathing again.  He shouldn’t be, he knows damn well, and the moment he catches his breath, he’s touching his throat, slapping his hand over the unblemished skin (because it can’t be, he felt it shred like so much tissue paper).  The skin is still tacky with his blood, tight and uncomfortable now that it’s dried there and over his face.  Only the blood on his shirt is still wet where it clings to his chest.  So much of it—still more is in the belly of a monster.  Yet here he is.  And once he catches his breath, he feels just fine.

He stands up—groaning, a little stiff, having been dead and all.  He’s shaky but mostly because he still expects to be so hurt--he's still touching his throat.  How can it be intact when he knows--he remembers--

He looks around a little but there isn’t much to see—the glow stick around his neck illuminates a bit, a shaft or two of sunlight, and his flashlight on the floor where it landed.  Already, he’s afraid—it’s not the vampires, either, something…some not-right feeling that he never noticed until it finally left him when he followed Dean through the rift.  His stomach twists sickly, thinking of it—he doesn’t know why.  Not-right feeling ramping up to 1000.  

Whatever.  Coming back from the dead is never comfortable, and he’s gotta get back to Dean and the others.  He turns—

Lucifer is sitting behind him, close, so damn close he could’ve touched him any time.  Sam is gasping, reeling back from him already before he even says, “Boo!”  Laughs in that sick way of his, like he’s just some overgrown teenager looking to stuff Sam in his locker.  His laugh gentles into a smile, fond and knowing.  It's a kind of intimate look that he saves just for Sam, like he knows him inside and out. 

Literally.  Every inch of his skin, but also what it feels like to rip him apart with his bare hands.  The way it feels inside him in every sense.   The way the world looks from his eyes, the way his thoughts take shape in his mind.  His memories, his life, every pathetic, embarrassing moment, every private first and last.  There's nothing about Sam that he has ever been able to keep safe from Lucifer.  He's been manipulated and interfered with on his behalf his entire life.  Violated on every level.

And now they're alone again.  

Lucifer waits it out, watching the shock and fear play over Sam's face.  “Hey, Sammy,” he says at last, the child-like family nickname perverse as always on his tongue.   

“No,” Sam’s voice is already shaking, _he’s_ shaking, backed nearly to the opposite wall.  But Lucifer doesn’t press into his space, content to sit.  For now. 

“Yeah,” He’s not even looking at him, playing with some cobweb, while Sam stares at his hand, waiting for the gesture that slams him against the wall ( _or burns him from the inside out, or just holds him down, holds him while—)_ “I mean you could do the whole...pinch yourself, rub your eyes thing, or you could put on your big boy pants and just, you know…,” he sighs, long suffering as he is, an Archangel dealing with someone as beneath him as Sam, “cut right to the realization that yup!”  He looks at Sam.  “It’s me.”

“Y-y-you, you,” Sam takes a shaking breath, staring at him in dawning horror, painfully confused.  “You brought me back?” 

“I did,” Lucifer agrees proudly, and now he stands (Sam flinches but that's all he does, he doesn't move closer.  Yet.)  He turns and smiles, holding eye contact.  “You’re welcome.” 

Sam’s eyes fill with tears, but they won’t fall this time, he promises himself. “Why?” His voice holds every bit of loathing he feels, but the tears he’s swallowing down are there, too.

“Hmm.  Yeah, I’m getting to that,” Lucifer gives him a sidelong look, losing the smile.  

“The rift,” Sam gasps, startled enough that he turns from Lucifer, moves towards the way back through the tunnel.  Because if Lucifer’s here, he’s not holding the door open.  “The rift,” he says again, then spins back to Lucifer, eyes wide and worried.  “Rowena—“  Because he’d _left_ her with this monster, knowing he’d get free, he always did—

“Oh, she’s okay,” Lucifer’s tone is reassuring, solicitous and he’s standing in front of him now ( _how did that happen, when, when did he--_ ) “I mean, I…I _was_ gonna kill her, but she blasted me here before I had a chance to, so.  It’s great,” he actually reaches toward Sam and Sam tenses ( _don't, don't, no_ ) but it doesn’t land.  “Self-defense,” he continues, while Sam stares at him in horror, reading between the lines, that he’d attacked Rowena again, how afraid she’d been, the things Lucifer might have done to her—“but uh…I was coming here anyway,” he finishes with a shrug and a smug smile, a man who always gets his way in the end.

Sam shakes his head, furious, frustrated (and beyond, _beyond_ terrified).  Because this _shouldn’t_ be possible.  “But we _drained_ you."

“Soo, how did I have the juice to pull off my little Lazarus trick?  Ah, that’s a long story?   But I was basically tracking you here,” Sam’s eyes widen fearfully and he swallows hard, thinking of Lucifer stalking him without him even realizing, and what's the point of being a badass hunter if _that_ can happen, “then I came across aaa…handful of Michael’s angels…and I,” he drags out the word, stares at Sam, a world of threat in his eyes.  His voice when it finally comes is low and satisfied, a growl that’s almost sexual.  “Ate ‘em.”  He nods.

Sam stares, disgusted, and shudders involuntarily and Lucifer smiles, satisfied.  “Guess it’s not really a long story.”

Sam shifts from foot to foot, his body is telling him to run, to fight, to something. “What do you want?”  He hates how uncertain he sounds, but they both know he’s afraid.

“What do I want?”  Lucifer blinks and shrugs, still playing his favorite game:  fucking with Sammy.  Well, one kind.  “I want what everyone wants, I want a…personal apology from Pop; I want…rerun-free year round episodes of Drag Race—“

“Yeah, got it, okay, right,” Sam cuts him off, pissed.  He doesn’t _want_ to play these games, he—he won’t play them.  Lucifer, always dragging it out, fucking _toying_ with him.  “We’re done here.”  And if his voice still shakes, if it’s softer than usual, at least he sounds sure this time. 

“Oh, you’re going?”  Lucifer doesn’t look concerned, watches as Sam carefully reaches down, only with one arm, keeping himself as far from the Archangel as possible while reaching for his backpack.  He clutches it fearfully when Lucifer moves, but he's only holding out a flashlight.  “Here.  It’s dark out there.”

Sam pulls away further, staring at the outstretched hand.  Tugs his own flashlight from his pack and stares, putting all the ‘fuck you’ he can manage into his gaze.  Flicks it on.  Gets a sarcastic look and eyeroll for his efforts.  He keeps glaring but when it’s apparent Lucifer isn’t making a move, he turns his back, his flashlight sweeping across to the tunnel as he moves. 

And pulls back, seeing an entryway full of the same animalistic vampires, snarling and hissing, straining against nothing that Sam can see.  Fighting to get to Sam.

“Yeah, they’re still…sort of all over there, and I’m just holding them back,” Lucifer explains calmly while Sam stares open mouthed at the writhing monsters.  “They’re just waiting for a little snap of the fingers, but...didn’t want ‘em flooding in here and eatin’ you again.  Not until we finished our convo here.”

Sam stares bleakly another moment, then turns, overwhelmed by his helplessness and pain, sheer terror and hate warring inside him.  “ _What_ do you _want_?”

Lucifer stares at him and Sam catches his breath, shivering like he's sick.  And Lucifer is so calm.  “I want what you already have.”

Sam blinks back tears; it’s never good, having a thing that Lucifer wants, but he doesn’t need a vessel, he doesn’t need him now, what could Sam possibly have—

“A relationship with my son.”

Realization hits and Sam looks down and away.  Because that relationship might have started with a connection from being Lucifer’s vessel, but Sam’s the one who nurtured it and turned it into something else.  He wanted to be for Jack what Dean had been for him; someone who cared enough to save him, who had faith that he could choose to be good, who could even help him choose.  He thought between the three of them and his mom, that they could give him...that they could be...  He huffs--like he's supposed to believe Lucifer's trying to do the same.

Lucifer nods, puts on a look of fake-chagrin.  “Okay, there was a time that I would…just grab him, but…I’ve grown.”

“Yeah, sure you have,” Sam shakes his head with disgust, even if his voice is down to a soft whisper.

“I have, Samuel,” Lucifer cuts him off, and his full name in that serious tone is like a block of ice on his chest, making it hard to get a good breath of air.  Because he’s not playing now.  All pretense gone, the games at least temporarily forgotten.  “I want my son.”  Watching Sam shake, seeing the fear in his eyes makes Lucifer smile gently again.  “And you’re gonna help me.”

Sam's head jerks in instant denial, repulsed, but hesitantly he looks at him again.  “H-how?” 

Lucifer’s smile deepens.  “Well, I don’t feel like he’ll give me a chance unless I come bearing gifts.”  Sam’s brows draw together, he swallows uncomfortably at the implication (like Sam's a _thing_ that can be handed over--to Lucifer, that's what he is), and Lucifer nods.  “Yup.  Boop!” he reaches out to touch Sam’s chest, making him recoil from the icy fingers.  “That’s you.”

Sam is breathing hard, trying to recover from that touch—he could feel the cold right through his clothes—when he hears the dark words and closes his eyes, blinks a few times.  Feeling the trap closing around him, fighting defeat. 

“Look, Sammy, I’m not asking you to like it, or to like me, all I’m asking is that you acknowledge the truth,” and it’s that serious tone, that ‘done fucking around’ tone that has Sam looking reluctantly at Lucifer.  “That I was the one who brought you back to life.  That I was the one who lifted you from the darkness and into the light.  Okay?” 

Sam closes his eyes and lowers his head, crushed by the weight of this brand new claim on him.  After fighting so hard, for so long, to be free, paying every high cost, losing so much of anything and everyone that's ever mattered, losing so much of himself.  Just to end up here.

Owing him his life.  

Lucifer waits, but Sam is lost in his pain, so the words keep coming.  “Apocalypse world?  Michaels armies?” Sam’s eyes open bitterly, blinking away fresh tears as the logical arguments begin.  Things that make so much sense, _just do it my way, Sammy, and I won’t have to hurt you again_ …  “You really think you and your family can handle that stuff alone?”  Sam looks away so that Lucifer won’t see the tear that does fall, because his family, God, they’re so close, Dean, Cas, Jack, and his mother…and what _are_ the chances they can all get out of this alive, just a bunch of human hunters and a couple of angels against armies that destroyed an entire world?  _No, don’t listen_ —  “You need me.”

Sam’s looking down when he says it, nods convulsively a couple of times first.  “And what if I say no?”  He looks up, terror-stricken and unable to hide it, having to ask, having to say, _what will you do to me, what happens to me this time--_

And he should be afraid, because Lucifer's pissed.  The way he always gets when he makes his closing arguments and Sam still remembers the two letter word that starts with N.  He looks away, rubs a hand over his mouth and clears his throat impatiently.  Starts talking fast, eventually getting right in Sam's face.  “Fine, let me make this…really, really, really easy.  _Easy_ enough for even you to understand, Sammy.  I’m getting to Jack.  One way or the other.  The only question is?  You coming with?”  He sweeps the flashlight up, over Sam’s shoulder and it excites the vampires, the snarling and hissing echoing all around them again.  “Or that.”  Sam turns and stares at the writhing monsters, who already killed him once when there were only two.  He glances back at Lucifer, who lifts his hand, ready to snap his fingers—a trick he uses to make the worst things happen.  “Your move, champ.” 

And Sam stares at the vampires again.  Because he should do it.  He should jump in and let them tear him to shreds again.  Because the other option—turning around, giving in to Lucifer is worse.  Bringing him to his family, to Jack?  A few minutes of chaotic pain and he’d be gone again, nothing compared to what Lucifer can do.

“Of course, you could do the whole self-sacrifice thing…you are kinda stupid that way.  But why should you when you know I’m right?  My stuffed shirt little brother Castiel was ready to work with me to defeat Michael.  Hey, how'd that feel by the way?  Us buddying up together when he knows…everything…about my time with you.  Huh, Bunk Buddy?  Not too good, I’m guessing, but even he knows sometimes you just gotta...grit your teeth and bear it.”

And Sam lowers his head.  Because that’s true, though Cas _had_ kept his secret, never letting Dean know just what had gone on over one hundred years in the cage.  Things Dean _couldn’t_ know if he was supposed to be able to keep looking him in the eye.  “Cas just wants to use you," he mutters, defending his friend.  He knew he was just trying to do what was right for Jack--and Lucifer _was_ Sam's responsibility.  He'd tried so damn hard to make up for all he'd done and he's here again.  It's happening again.  So obviously he hadn't done enough.  "You're a means to an end."

“Hmm.  Yeah.  Maybe you’re right.  I mean...here I am trying to work with ya...when we both know, it's so much easier to just use you however I want.”  And Sam is already turning when he’s grabbed from behind. 

He fights—he thinks he does, his muscles hurt from the strain of it—but this is a fight he couldn’t win when he had Dean and Cas right beside him.  Lucifer lets him fight because it's fun for him, freight train punches slamming Sam's kidney, his ribs, his gut.  Then Sam is slammed face down on the concrete slab where Lucifer had been sitting.  It knocks the wind out of him, and by the time he’s breathing again Lucifer’s on top of him and the fight is over (though he's struggling, squirming like a child, his body not understanding that it's already done.)  “I think you remember this next part, Sammy.” 

Sam hears his buckle being undone—sometimes the belt is taken off, and Sam is beaten before he’s fucked, but he guesses the Archangel doesn’t have the time just now.  His arms are pinned at the small of his back without a single touch, Lucifer’s Archangel powers making a mockery of the spell that hadn’t been able to hold him for long earlier ( _Sam’s plan, Sam’s fault_ , he remembers, sinking with the shame of it all.)  He’s shaking so hard it feels like he’s going to seize, when he feels icy hands move to the front of his jeans, lifting him just enough for access.  “S-s-stop, I-I’ll go!  I’ll g-go with you!  I-I-I'll t-take you t-to th-them--”  _Dean would forgive him, Dean would help him--_

The hands pause and Lucifer murmurs next to his face, making him flinch hard enough to hurt his neck.  “That’s a good boy, Sammy.  Knew you’d come around.”  He pets his hair and this time Sam forces himself to endure it, tears trickling past eyes shut tightly, letting him have some of what he wants.  Showing he’ll behave now.  He’ll be good.  “Of course, there’s still the part where you helped my little brother and that little witch kick me when I was down.  That wasn’t too smart.  Bet you really liked seeing me on my knees for you, huh Sammy?  Remind you of the good times, when good little boys got rewards?”

"No, no," Sam whimpers, and jerks, struggling against what might as well be steel, only hurting himself, but too panicked to stop.  Useless--he feels his pants being opened—carefully, wouldn’t want them to rip--and shoved down his thighs.  His boxer briefs get ripped, though, he feels the burn as the cotton is torn from his skin. 

“Won’t need these.  You could try saying sorry, you know.  That’d be a good start.”

Sam jumps when the Devil's frigid spit lands on his hole--doing it the old fashioned way this time.   He can never decide which is worse, this or his angelic grace opening him unnaturally, like getting fucked before he gets a dick in him.  That’s when he doesn’t just tear through everything Sam has.  No problem healing him afterward. 

He has his lips clamped shut so he won't scream, he won't beg, but a whine slips out, high and tight like a child, because Lucifer is shoving two large fingers inside him ( _inside him again, he knew he’d come get him, he **knew**_ —).  He won't say it, but he's thinking it, the mantra as useless as the rest of him, _no, no, no, no_ \--

“Yes,” Lucifer croons mockingly as if he heard him anyway, fingering Sam like he’s a girl--it hurts because he's still mostly dry and Lucifer's so cold, not because he's being rough.  Worse, always worse like this, when it's slow, as though it's, as though Sam--  “So tight for me, Bunk Buddy…you let any other guys up here or you saving it all for me?”

And Sam sobs then, refuses to answer, because he isn’t gay or even bisexual.  He doesn’t want this, he never has, but Lucifer tore it from him—even made his body respond.  Or Sam thinks he makes him, tells himself he makes him--on an ordinary day, he knows about physical responses to stimuli, knows how the physical arousal of being attacked can even heighten sexual arousal regardless of the person's mental state--but it doesn't feel that way, under him like this.  Remembering how Lucifer always says he doesn’t have to force Sam to feel anything.  That Sam just likes it with him.  That he's just made for him that way.

“All mine still, I thought so.  Good boy, Sammy.  Or should I say, Samantha.  That’s what your brother calls you, right?  You always liked being _my_ Samantha best, though.  That's it, here we go, Sammy, let me in that tight pussy…you don’t have to say sorry, you can just cry for me…like a good girl…show me you're sorry that way hmm?”  Lucifer’s fingers are gone, his dick—nine inches and thick in this vessel, and that’s when he’s not altering reality to make it some kind of impossible monster—is pushing inside Sam slowly, carefully. 

“No--n-no!” Sam screams, it comes out a plea, but it doesn't stop, bearing down on him, into him.  And Dean and Cas won’t save him; they think he’s dead.  “No,” he chokes, the devil’s cock stretching him impossibly, an ache that he feels in his spine.  He’s too dry inside, the drag is unbearable each way—this shouldn’t even work—but Lucifer starts to move, a few experimental ( _agonizing_ ) thrusts before he finds his rhythm. 

He smacks Sam’s ass hard.  “You just love that word, Sammy.  But not this time, right?  This time I got you to say yes.  Wait til Dean sees you…,” he fucks a bit faster now, gripping the backs of his shoulders, shoving deep inside him.

Sam’s mouth is hanging open, he’s making these huffing, rasping noises deep in his throat, short versions of the sound he made when he came back to life. He's soaked with sweat, but he isn't as hot as he should be under Lucifer, both of them still mostly dressed--the unnatural chill coming from the Archangel is pressing into his back, his bare ass and thighs.   He feels split wide, filled all the way up, his insides burn in a cold way that wracks his body with shivers, like Lucifer had kept his dick in a freezer before sticking it into Sam.  He can feel his cracked ribs digging into concrete, his bare cock scraping it painfully, too, but the pain is nothing.  How could he ever think he'd be free of being this?  This dark, worthless thing, made to be used by the Devil, made to hurt everyone he loves, an endless burden on them.  He thinks of Dean and Cas, how disgusted they’ll be.  Cas will know right away what he’d done.  What he’d allowed again, just so he wouldn’t die.  And his brother--

“S’okay to like it, Sammy, remember?  I made you to like it,”  He pulls out of Sam, tugging him back.  And as though Sam is a child and not the 6’4” giant he really is, Lucifer folds his legs up and pulls him into his lap, knees to his chest, his long body suddenly made compact.  His back is against Lucifer’s chest, and the Devil is holding him with one arm while his other hand guides his cock back inside his abused hole, making Sam cry out.  Then Lucifer is shoving him down on his dick like it’s nothing.  He’s so completely helpless—it shouldn’t be possible for him to be this helpless. 

“Look at my little bitch go,” Lucifer snarls in his ear, then bites his neck savagely, licking at the already bloody skin.  “Got you now, Sammy…Castiel brought Dean back to save the world, right?”  Lucifer licks into his ear, sucks his earlobe, still shoving him down mercilessly.  “I brought you back for this.  Brought you back to be my bitch…what did I tell you…all those years ago?”

“N-n-no!” Sam cries out, his eyes still shut and streaming tears.  “Th-that wasn’t—r-real!”  He yelps at a particularly hard thrust.

Lucifer just laughs in his ear.  “Course it was.”  _I can get inside your grapefruit any time I want_ (and he is, thoughts that aren’t Sam’s searing across his brain, flooding his body with all new terror—he smells urine but won’t realize until later what that means.)  But Lucifer isn’t done. “You’re. My. Bitch.  In.  Every.  Sense.  Of.  The.  _Term_!”  Punctuating each word with a rough thrust.

And Sam really screams.  Lucifer likes that a lot—Sam loses track some, and when he notices things again, he’s still being fucked but the thrusts are shallow, and slower.  Like Lucifer is slowing on purpose, trying to focus on Sam’s words. 

Since he’s begging.  “Please, please, please, stop, please please, no, please,” the words a high pitched, nearly voiceless whine and he isn’t talking about the rape, no, no, he’ll take that, he’ll do whatever Lucifer wants, just please, not inside his head again, don’t go inside his head again. 

Lucifer pulls out a second time, but it’s to lay Sam down on his back.  He stops begging when his voice gives out, and he gives over to his hysteria, crying like a child lost in the dark.  The caves echo with his hopeless sounds as Lucifer pulls one of his boots off, drags his jeans off one leg so he can spread him wide.  And Lucifer is pressing his sore, fucked out hole once more.  “Look at me, Sammy, c’mon, Samantha, that’s a good girl, look up…just think…,” he tells him once Sam obeys.  Sam’s hands are flat at his sides, his fingers probably bleeding from how he digs uselessly into the concrete.  “Thanks to you…I’ll have my son back…and if you’re a good girl, I’ll let you be his Mommy.  You want that?  Huh?  Look after little Junior…put food on the table for him, that kind of thing…and I’ll fill up this sweet, perky little ass like it’s meant for.” 

Sam sobs; he can’t think of Jack while this is…while he’s…he tries to turn his face, shut his eyes, but Lucifer grabs him, starts kissing him.  “Nu-uh, Sammy, you know better.  Kiss back, show me that tongue action.”

And Sam kisses him the way he likes, because that’s what gets this over faster.  Being good.  He cries while he does it, cries right into Lucifer’s mouth—just something else the Devil likes.  All the evidence of his shame, his defeat.  His self-hatred.  His acceptance.

“Mmm, I’ll take that as a yes…getting close, Sammy…I know you pissed yourself before and that was real sweet.  But now it’s time to show you how much you want this from me.  How much you always love it.”

“Don’t, don’t, please,” Sam begs him but it’s already happening, his insides suddenly feel soft and wet and welcoming, hot pleasure blossoming from his prostate, his groin heating too, blood rushing low to fill him straight and proud.  Of course Lucifer touches him, always skilled whether with hands or tongue.  He can’t feel the concrete anymore or his ribs, even when he digs into them, wanting the pain, _needing_ it.  He might as well be floating, feeling nothing but perfect friction on his dick, up his ass, where it belongs, where he needs it, where he was made to take it, Lucifer's thick cock, filling him all up.  Those aren’t his thoughts, those aren’t his _thoughts_!

“Lucifer!” he cries desperately and his lips are still close enough that just speaking puts them together.  _Don’t_ , is what he meant, but Lucifer is gathering his legs around his hips, and they must be glued there by his power, because Sam isn’t doing this, he isn’t arching into this, he doesn’t _want_ this. 

“Fill you up one way or another, don’t I…MFEO…,” Lucifer’s voice is a low growl over his mouth, and Sam’s mouth is slack, his head falls back.  They’re both close—he can feel Lucifer's hips stuttering, feel how close he is in his mind, can hardly tell where his thoughts end and the Devil’s begin.  _Come for me, Samuel._

The command inside his brain, and his body listens, even as he screams out his despair, cumming hard, spurting a mess over his sweat soaked stomach, where his shirt had gotten rucked up to his chest.  The Devil cums second, icy and wet and chasing away any warmth inside him, an awful, sickening feeling that he’d promised himself he’d never know again. 

It’s always like this, there is no afterglow.  Just instant autonomy, with a sudden awareness of everything—the pain in his body, the words he’d let slip.  The begging he’d done.  The million little ways he’d participated—thrusting his hips, kissing, kissing the devil like a lover (not his first time, not his hundredth…his last, he swears it.)  He’s not crying anymore, he thinks, just shaking really hard, still trying to catch his uneven breath, smelling old blood, sweat, piss, and cum. His own, all over his stomach.  Worse, the inescapable awareness of his hole, the constant ache, the way it's clenching around nothing, leaking that'll get worse the moment he tries to sit up.

Lucifer is sitting up, putting himself back together.  He’s singing a little song—Camptown Races, Sam thinks, just before he turns and empties his guts on the floor.  When he looks up Lucifer is staring coldly at him.  “I could make you lick that up.  Your piss, your cum, mine.  I could make you do a lot of things.”

Sam looks down without speaking.  He’s trying to get his pants back on (needs, _needs_ to be covered, to be dressed), but the denim doesn’t slide as easily over his skin without the cotton of his underwear.  He tries to zip them but his shaking hands won’t work—the button at the top takes four tries.  He thinks his shirt is long enough to cover his open fly.  He covers his mouth with his hand so the sob won’t escape.  He looks to the doorway at the vampires—still held back easily, like it’s nothing to an Archangel—holding back a horde of animalistic vamps while raping his true vessel--just an ordinary day in the life. 

“Seriously, Sammy?  You do know I can just bring you back again.” 

Sam closes his eyes, defeated.  Because that’s what he figured.  Just like the last time. 

“I just, you know.  That would expend more grace.  And we’ve still gotta figure out this whole rift thing if we want to get home again, right?  Just can’t tell how long that stuff’ll last.”  Lucifer sounds so reasonable.  He steps closer, his breath still somehow icy when it moves across the skin. “Now.  Ready to go get my son?”

 

* * *

Sam limps his way into the camp. 

He wishes he could hide it—he thinks he does a good job of at least downplaying it.  His ass still feels fucked open and sore, each step a painful reminder, making his raw insides scrape together.  His ribs hurt when he breathes, countless other pains he can’t even begin to catalog.  He’s breathing hard, he’s exhausted—but for once his luck holds out because they’re all there.

Dean—of course he sees him first, staring at Sam in amazed disbelief.  He finds Jack, who turns and smiles, so genuinely happy to see him.  “Sam,” he breathes, relief clear in his voice. 

Cas is behind him—he looks stunned, too, but grimly.  Like maybe he knows better than anyone that Sam should not be standing there.  His Mom is there, too--so long, he’s wanted so long to see her again—and her mouth does this thing, like she doesn’t know if she should smile or cry.  He’s not offended; all hunters know better than to trust the walking dead.

His eyes find Dean again, and then he can’t help it, he’s looking at them all, even grim, worried Cas.  His odd little family, together in one place, just like he’s wanted.  All that time worrying about Jack and his mother, but here they are, safe and sound with Dean and Cas.  Amazingly, he starts to smile.

He doesn’t think Lucifer’s boots make any noise on the ground, but he knows the moment he’s there.  His smile falters, grief and self-loathing overtake him.  For some reason he’s staring at Dean now, he guesses because he’d been staring, both of them doing this sort of breathless thing, because this time they really didn’t think they’d get a reunion. 

That’s why he sees the moment Dean’s head starts to tilt, taking in the figure behind him.  He lowers his head and closes his eyes.  Shame drags at him.  He can’t bear to look at Dean now, watch that realization fill his green eyes.  What Sam had brought them yet again, what he’ll always bring:  the reason everyone who loves him dies.  This same evil that chose him before he was even born, still dogging him now.  And he couldn’t stand against it.  All these years, still so damn _weak_.  His family, endlessly paying the price.

“Hello, son,” Lucifer says behind him, and Sam knows it’s starting.  He doesn’t look to see the confusion in Jack’s face, or the trepidation, the wrath in Cas’s.   He lifts his eyes slowly, painfully hesitant, and isn’t surprised when Dean’s still looking at him.

_I’m sorry, Dean...I did this to you again,_ he thinks.  And wishes he’d just stayed dead.  Alone with his dream family, eating pizza and teasing Dean.  

More than a freak like Sam should ever have.


End file.
